Semper Fidelis Mortem
by dixonite
Summary: "I try not to see are the men falling around me. Men I should be helping. Men wearing uniforms representing the country I should be defending. But it is harder to ignore the things they fall to, and that's what keeps me hurtling towards the fence; away from my line of duty and into whatever hell lies beyond." SYOC


It always happens in slow motion. This is both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it gives you time. Time to process the gun's boom, the shattering glass, the feeling of your body falling and your palms scraping on the floor. It gives you time to react. To save yourself. But it also gives you time to realize what could happen if you don't. And now, I'm not so sure I'll make it. All my life has been practice. I thought that meant I'd be ready for anything. But marching and drills and firing at clay targets couldn't prepare me for the possibilities that lie out there; I am not ready. No one could possibly be ready for this.

As my nose cracks against the linoleum, I'm thrust back into the world. And I know, instantly, that I have to get out of here.

Boots scrape against the tiling.

Slip in a pool of blood. Stumble. Try to forget it.

_Blam! Blam! Blam!_

Shots fire. Alarms wail.

I'm reaching the end of the hallway, illuminated by flashing red lights in sync with the sirens and screams. My head is jerking, my vision blurry, but I can still make out the sign for the artillery. _There. Go._

"Grab a weapon and file out, GO!" a drill sergeant howls, filing out of the artillery followed by a line of recruits. They're running, almost out the door, but I see one is caught off guard. One of those- those _things_ creeps out from a corner and-

No. Quick.

I duck into the artillery, panting. I should be grabbing my gun, loading, and heading out there to fight. I know that.

I grab one, two, three guns. A pistol. A dagger. I load them into my pack. Scramble out the door. Down the hall. My vision is interrupted every few seconds by the strobe's gleam. Dark. Light. Dark. Light. Black. Red. Screeching sirens. Heart pounding. Legs pumping. For a second, I consider following the group of recruits. I'm nearing the doors. But no. I cut left. Skirt around a blood puddle. Dodge a stray bullet from an adjacent hall. Try to ignore the screams that should be mine. Slam through the doors I've never been past before, but hope to God leads to my destination.

Light floods my vision. From the sounds I hear, for a moment, I'm thankful for it. My eyes come to and I see guard towers, fences, a plain of marshy grass and just behind it, the gleam of pavement. Parking lot.

What I try not to see are the men falling around me. Men I should be helping. Men wearing uniforms representing the country I should be defending. But it is harder to ignore the things they fall to; and that's what keeps me hurtling towards the fencing.

The sirens blare, the gunfire booms. I'm spotted; I hear calls for help, but I sprint on. I reach the fence and begin to climb. Something grabs at my foot. I'm frantic. I kick away; keep climbing. Reach the barbed wire top, yowl and hiss when the edges cut into my skin, but my cries are nothing compared to those whose guts lay on the grass below. Hoist myself over, flop onto the ground. Free.

Up again. Running. Water seeps into my boots. I stumble, fall, land in a puddle of mud and soot. Moans surround me. Christ. I'm closer to the parking lot. Closer. Closer.

My boots squish against concrete. I slam myself into the nearest car to keep myself from speeding on. Wrong one. Red truck, red truck, red truck…

Found it. Fling open the door, throw my pack inside, pound the lock. Grind the keys into ignition. The tires squeal as I throw the truck into reverse. I'm flying past the rows of cars. Hours seem to pass before I slam through the gates that seal the lot. I expect to breathe a sigh of relief as I skitter down the paved road, nearing the freeway. But I don't. My thought process slows, my heart rate flutters, and all I can think of is what I have done; and what I will do now.

_ Welcome to the first and disappointingly rushed chapter of Semper Fidelis Mortem, my first Walking Dead story. Semper Fidelis Mortem follows the journey and survival of Nathan Hawthorne, a 24 year old Marine Officer who guiltily escaped his station at Parris Island, South Carolina's Basic Training Camp when the undead began to attack despite the military's best defense efforts. Along the way, his position as a leader paves the way to the creation of his own survival group. That's where the readers come in._

_ Although Nathan will be the leader of the group, I plan on adding in new survivors starting in Chapter 3, and include more as they are sent in and deemed fit. These characters, depending on likability will, much like in the show, become just as important characters and group members as my original, and some will probably develop individual fanbases themselves (I mean, Daryl vs. Rick, anyone?). Not every character sent in will be chosen. I am a huge stickler for realism, continuity, and what have you. Others I will add in just to kill off. This is the nature of the story, and in most cases I am not fazed by taking out a character for the sake of the plot. I will develop the group's story myself with little real interactivity, but I will have a vote at the end of each chapter, a sort of Choose Your Own Adventure ordeal, that will decided certain courses and actions to be taken when needed. Elements from both the comics and the TV show will be included, and I will occasionally tease canon ;) So, without further ado, the form!_

Name:

Age:

Hometown/State:

Appearance:

Personality: (This section is key. I need at least a solid paragraph; include a bit of their personalities pre-apocalypse and the ways they have been changed and adapt to the situation if needed.)

History: (anything important backstory before and/or after the apocalypse, pre-induction into the group.)

Survival: (the story of how and why they have survived as long as they have)

Family/Friends: (deceased or living)

Skills/Strengths:

Weaknesses:

_Forms can be sent in through PM only. Make your characters as creative as possible while still staying true to the world they live in! I need badasses, but they can't all be katana-swinging babes or shotgun-toting ex-cops. I need every kind of person, weak or strong, brilliant or moronic, rich or poor and everything else in between. Not everyone can be loved. Not everyone can be perfect. Remember; Fear the Living._


End file.
